


Serene Saltation

by FromAnonymousToZ



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon & Comics)
Genre: Based on a peice of art, Dancing, Dancing in a barn, Don't Actually You Will Get Alcohol Poisoning, Festivals, Fluff, Given how many limbs Enoch has and how the beast is made of wood, Humming, I'll be honest I'm not sure how well these two dance, M/M, Slow Dancing, Take a shot everytime you read the word hum, Thats not a tag but it should be given how often I write these two humming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:27:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27271162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FromAnonymousToZ/pseuds/FromAnonymousToZ
Summary: The festival is at its peak when Enoch feels a distinct tugging at his borders.Based on a piece of art by Shaykai.
Relationships: The Beast/Enoch (Over the Garden Wall)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	Serene Saltation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shaykai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaykai/gifts).



> This is based on a wonderful piece of art by Shaykai and you can find both their blog and the art [Here](https://shaykai.tumblr.com/post/632906960126263296/ive-had-this-for-a-while-and-im-too-lazy-to)!
> 
> They have been very kind in letting me write a fic based on their art! Please drop by and give them some love!
> 
> I'm on tumblr [Here](https://doyouknowhowtowaltz.tumblr.com/)! If you have requests, prompts, questions or just want to come chat please drop by.

The festival is at its peak when Enoch feels a distinct tugging at his borders. Slowly he sends out a ribbon of plenty to greet the Beast and coax him into Pottsfeild's borders. 

Enoch hums appreciatively when he feels hunger and chill grace his web. Lazily he flexes his ribbons as he watches over a throng of dancing Pottsfeilders as he sends another part of his consciousness to trace the Beast’s footsteps. 

The Beast does not wander, at least not in Pottsfeild, his steps are always decisive, and his path never meanders. 

Enoch quashes a flicker of annoyances when the Beast makes his way to Enoch’s barn and slips inside rather than making his way to the festival. It's not unexpected per se, just mildly disappointing. 

The Beast has never been prone to enjoying large groups of mortals, Pottsfeilders or otherwise. He tolerates them just fine, but he has always preferred their company in small doses. 

The Beast circles around inside the barn a handful of times before settling into the corner, and for a moment, Enoch spares a thought to calling the evening early to go wrap himself around the winter warden. 

He cannot begrudge his Pottsfeilders their evening, though, and so must resign himself to watching over the festivities. 

He hums as the maypole sways in the evening wind, long shadows cast to and fro by the fire. 

The hours begin to drag on in whirls of laughter and small talk and dance and contentment, and it's getting around close to the moon’s peak when Enoch feels the Beast shift. 

It's almost imperceptible, given how subtle the movement is. 

Enoch isn't well-tuned to precise movements. He's much better when he is only interpreting general broad strokes, but in his barn, where Enoch laces most of his being, he can feel every movement, no matter how faint or minuscule.

He cocks the maypole’s brow as he stares down at the flurry of grinning Pottsfeilders, all vying for their next dance. 

The Beast is a patient creature, and not one unwilling to stand fixed in place. Indeed his neighbor is prone to occasional shifting, gesturing, or movement, but it was never lazy, it was always calculated, anticipated, and without an audience, he rarely moves unless necessary. 

Enoch wonders if the Beast is going to leave. 

It certainly wouldn't be the first time the Beast wandered into Pottsfeild, lingered, and then left without ever encountering magistrate or citizen alike.

Instead, the Beast hangs his lantern upon a peg in the barn and settles back into his corner. 

Enoch pauses, watching the twirling skirts of his citizens, and then, carefully without drawing much attention, flags down Miss Clara.

She casts a glance towards him and he wiggles a strip of fabric in a quick “Come hither” gesture. 

After excusing herself she breaks away from her conversational partner to skirt through crowds of Pottsfeilders to come to Enoch’s side. 

“Hello, my dear.” He murmurs. 

“Good evening, Enoch,” She smiles warmly up at him behind her jack-o-lantern head, the maypole twists into a wide smile. “I trust you are not asking for the next dance.” She teases. 

The maypole grins slyly down at her, eye shapes crinkling. 

“Why, Miss Clara, surely you know I’m saving it for someone special.” 

She clucks affectionately. 

“Someone special, you say?” She folds her hands over her apron, and he can feel the mischief dancing over her. “Someone waiting in your barn, perhaps?” It seeps into her tone.

“You know me so well,” He coos.

“Well?” She asks him expectantly. 

“I was wondering if you could perhaps answer any questions of my whereabouts.” He purrs. 

“Oh, of course, dear, now don't keep Mr. Hope waiting.” She shoos him with a wave of her hand, and he laughs. 

He cast one final glance over his Pottsfeilders and slips away, out of the fire’s glow and into the quiet, shadowed streets of his town. 

He roams across uneven roads, between charming houses through soft moonlight corridors, alight with the sounds of laughter and music and mirth. 

He leaves the town behind, and the once roaring din of the festivities subdues to a whisper. 

Fields begin to crop up, separated by crooked wooden fences, lined by pumpkins. 

Out at the fringes of it, a barn that Enoch, for now, calls home. 

Certainly, when Pottsfeild expands and he will make a new barn closer to the border, but for now, it is where he resides. 

He pulls open the doors and ducks inside, careful not to bang the maypole against the doorframe. 

“Hello, Beast.” He purrs as he pulls the doors shut behind him, flicking the lock in place with a twist of his ribbons. 

The Beast hums pleasantly, eyes hooded crescents full of blue. 

A single claw-tipped hand emerges from shadow to catch an errant ribbon. 

Enoch ebbs contentment and flexes his ribbons. 

“It’s your harvest festival.” The Beast states as he begins tying a bow into the ribbon in his hand. 

“Yesss,” Enoch hisses. 

The Beast’s eyes cut over to him, violet intermingling in rings with blue. 

“Why aren’t you out supervising your people, Harvest Lord?” 

He chuckles, sending another ribbon skirting into the Beast’s corner of shadows to loop loosely around his foot. 

“They hardly need supervision.” Enoch coos. “Besides, I believe I am also entitled to spend the harvest as I wish.” 

“Indeed.” The Beast murmurs, and they fall into a comfortable silence. 

Enoch hums along with the distant melodies of Pottsfeild’s band as they move fluidly between songs, laughter drifts in soft whispers twining itself with music. 

Contented pleasure settles itself throughout him as he drifts through the barn, occasionally rearranging this or that feeling the Beast’s cool presence, tethered by his ribbons. 

An idea wedges itself in his head. 

He waits for the next break in the song and turns to the Beast, offering a single ribbon and bowing the maypole. 

The Beast observes him through narrowed eyes, head cocked.

“Hope Eater,” He purrs silkily. “May I have this dance.”

There's a beat of silence as the Beast considers. 

At last blue sparks in those eyes in fragile rings. 

“Of course,” He croons and takes Enoch’s ribbon in hand. 

Enoch tugs him close, finding the Beast’s other hand with a ribbon and wrapping him in strips of green fabric. 

Distantly, the band begins to kick up again. The song so soft and gentle, merely a suggestion of sound. 

They fall into a leisurely pace, back and forth, moving in slow circles in the barn. 

The Beast begins to hum, and Enoch eagerly joins in, pitching his voice into a harmony.

Enoch’s maypole pulls the Beast closer until the winter warden is nearly flush with his ribbons. A lilt in the Beast’s humming betrays his joy, eyes blazing in blue.

They move in slow circles, whirls, and arks of an intricate pattern traced by feet and ribbons. 

Silver makes their edges soft, casting crisp shadows and giving everything a fine dreamlike quality. The harsh lines that distinguish their beings blend until they are not two but are instead one, dancing patterns together. 

One step forward, one step backwards, punctuated by a fond spin which only ends up tangling the Beast further in ribbons. 

Perhaps the maypole doesn't have the proper limbs to dance, but he can certainly move in time with the music and enjoy the Beast’s humming. 

Enoch has never been inclined to the dashing whirling, impulsive breathless dances his Pottsfeilders tended to favor. 

But with the Beast, it was only soft and sweet stolen dances in the eves of the night to the chorus of crickets. There were no broad sweeping movements nor tight, quick twirls, only feet, and ribbons carving patterns through dust, together. They move upon crests and eves of soft humming, spurred on not by a fiddle or a song or a drum but by suggestion. 

Soft moonlight filtering through the loft window tints the room, dim blue and purple cast by the Beast eyes even as darkness embraces them. 

Enoch drips with contented pleasure and loses himself in the slow ebb and flow of their dance, watching rapture dance blue in the Beast’s eyes. 

It's nearly dawning when their footsteps slow, soft joy tinting the air. 

The Beast’s hand tangled in ribbons pulls the maypole’s head down to eye level. The Beast hums, eyes pools of blue, caressing the maypole’s head. 

“I must be going.” The Beast murmurs softly, breaking their harmony. 

Enoch sighs pleasantly, contentment billowing out from him.

“So soon?” He coos, a ribbon caressing the Beast’s antlers. 

“Yes,” The Beast says as he begins to untangle himself from Enoch’s ribbons. 

Enoch half-heartedly twines a few more around the Beast, only to be met with gentle insistence by the Beast’s claws. 

Somewhat reluctantly, he withdraws, looming up into the rafters of the barn.

The faint cacophony of Pottsfeild’s festivities are winding to a close in the distance, but in the quiet of the barn, there is only stillness, hanging in a moment of peace. 

The Beast retrieves his lantern. 

He moves to the door and casts a look over his shoulder before slipping into the dark hours before dawn. 

“Save the next dance for me, Harvest Lord.” He purrs and disappears out into the fields.

The maypole skin pulls into a grin. 

He wouldn't dream of giving it to anyone else. 

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, this is based on a peice of art by Shaykai which you can find [Here](https://shaykai.tumblr.com/post/632906960126263296/ive-had-this-for-a-while-and-im-too-lazy-to)!
> 
> I'm on tumblr [Here](https://doyouknowhowtowaltz.tumblr.com/)! If you have requests, prompts, questions or just want to come chat please drop by.


End file.
